NTR: Minor Villain Wants to Be the Main Villain - Chapter 89

Chapter 89: Task Failed!

A cluster of spears was already leveled at Daphne, their sharp tips gleaming with an unmistakable “one wrong move and you’re toast” energy.

Behind her, she could hear Galore cracking his knuckles like he was auditioning for the role of “angry muscle-bound sidekick.” He was practically vibrating with excitement for a fight.

But then, Reiner—cool as a fucking cucumber—grabbed Galore’s fist mid-motion and gave a subtle shake of his head. It was like a silent “don’t ruin this any further, you idiot” warning.

Daphne’s brain short-circuited.

‘Oh, shit. What have I done?’

Her stomach dropped faster than a drunk on cheap ale. She knew she’d fucked up. Royally. And in this room full of tension, she realized her usual go-to response of punch now, talk never wasn’t going to fly.

‘Fuck me sideways.’

She thought, already sweating. Her pride screamed to justify her actions, but reality slapped her with a harsh truth:

Beggars don’t get to pick their battles, and apparently, they also don’t get to assault people willy-nilly.

Begrudgingly, she released Artis’s hand like it was a hot iron.

“I… uh…”

Words failed her. Diplomacy wasn’t just out of her comfort zone—it was on another planet.

If it were a brawl, she’d be a goddamn poet, but now? She was the verbal equivalent of a drunk trying to explain quantum physics.

Her awkward stammer was cut off by a low chuckle.

It came from him. Artis. The bastard she’d just slammed into the table.

The sound was soft at first, but it cut through the silence of the tavern like a knife. And somehow, it wasn’t comforting in the slightest.

No, this wasn’t the laugh of a man who’d been humiliated. It was the laugh of someone who enjoyed it.

The patrons collectively flinched, their faces a mix of terror and morbid curiosity. A few gulped nervously, while others darted their eyes away, pretending to be fascinated by their empty mugs.

But no one—no one—resumed what they were doing. It was as if the entire room had paused to watch a lion decide whether it was in the mood to pounce or purr.

Daphne swallowed hard. She had a sinking feeling this chuckle wasn’t going to lead anywhere pleasant.

The man rose slowly, the kind of deliberate movement that screamed “I’m about to make this awkward for everyone.”

Artis adjusted his robe like he was some high-brow aristocrat instead of a professional pain in the ass, his smirk sharper than the spears still pointed at Daphne.

“Well, brother, it seems these fine folks aren’t ready to serve you properly. Shame, really. Let’s not waste our precious time here anymore.”

The young master stood up, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulders, exuding the kind of energy only someone born with a golden spoon up their ass could manage.

The ladies on his lap popped to their feet like trained puppies, their exaggerated giggles now replaced with nervous silence.

“Chen,” the young master added, his calm voice carrying an undercurrent of pure menace, “it seems you’ve wasted our time. Again. Say goodbye to this month’s salary, you useless prick.”

Chen barely flinched. He just nodded, his expression screaming “Yeah, I saw this coming.” He shot Daphne and her crew a look that could only be described as “thanks for nothing, assholes.”

The entourage began filing out in perfect synchronization, like a pack of predators deciding this hunt wasn’t worth it.

Artis lingered, his hand casually grabbing the bottle of ridiculously expensive booze from the table—because of course he would.

As he passed Daphne, he shot her a shit-eating grin, the kind that said “I’ll be thinking about your tail later tonight.” He didn’t say a word, but the message was loud and clear.

Then, as if he hadn’t just humiliated her and disrupted the entire tavern, he sauntered out with all the swagger of a cat who’d just knocked a priceless vase off the table and didn’t give a fuck.

The tavern owner, who had been nervously gripping a rag like it was a stress ball, immediately crossed himself again.

He whispered a prayer under his breath, thanking every deity he could think of that his tavern was still standing and not reduced to rubble.

Daphne stood frozen, her fists clenched, her pride in shreds, and her tail still awkwardly brushing places it shouldn’t.

‘This mission better be worth this bullshit.’

…

“She was a good specimen.”

Jin mused as they strolled away, his tone as casual as if he were discussing a damn wine tasting.

“Good? Sure. Worth the fucking circus act? Not even close.”

Artis grumbled, shaking his head.

He knew the drill—these wannabes would keep crawling back, tails between their legs, until Jin gave the nod.

And for Jin to give the nod, Artis had to stamp his seal of approval. Spoiler alert: he wasn’t going to make it easy.

“Well…”

Chen piped up, grinning like the devil who just signed a fresh soul.

“If they’re really itching to grovel under your boot, young master, they’ll crawl back. I mean, did you see our performance back there? Especially that final act. Chef’s fucking kiss!”

Artis snorted, while Jin chuckled like the puppet master he was.

“Chen, you really do have a knack for reading people. They’ve got power, sure, but not the right vibe yet. Pride, hesitation—whatever’s clogging their pipes, it’s holding them back. But mark my words, they’ll be back.”

Jin’s smirk grew wider, almost predatory, as he placed a hand on Artis’s shoulder.

“And when they do, you’re up, Artis. Teach them what it means to truly serve a master. No half-assery. Full submission. Got it?”

Artis glanced at Jin, then back at the tavern they’d just left. His lips curled into a grin that was equal parts amusement and menace.

“Oh, don’t you worry, young master. By the time I’m done with them, they’ll be worshiping the ground you walk on… or begging for mercy. Either works for me.”

“Since it has become like this—does this mean I still get my salary this month?”

Chen blurted out, rubbing the back of his neck with an awkward smile that screamed please don’t fuck me over.

His voice carried the desperation of a man who’d just realized his wallet might be emptier than a monk’s booze stash.

It wasn’t often Chen got docked for dumb shit. He knew the gamble: nail the recruitment, get a fat commission; botch it, kiss your paycheck goodbye.

When he first scouted the trio, he’d sworn on his left nut that they had potential. Hell, they even nodded along when he casually hinted they might have to “get creative” in their duties.

But now? Turns out they were still stuck in pride-and-prejudice mode, not bend-the-knee reality.

Jin and Artis froze mid-step, turning to stare at him like he’d just asked to borrow their underwear. For a solid moment, the air was heavy with tension.

Then, as if on cue, they both burst into laughter so loud it echoed down the street like a pair of drunk hyenas.

“Assholes.”

Chen muttered under his breath, scowling as he trudged after them. His cursed luck struck again. No booze, no commission, and now no paycheck? Fucking wonderful.

They walked in silence for a bit, Chen nursing his bruised pride, until Artis suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.

“Ah, I’m heading home, brother.”

Artis declared, stretching like he had all the time in the world.

“Already? You just fucking got here.”

“One whole week ago.”

“Aaaaah, such a long time.”

Jin mocked, dragging out his words like a sarcastic little shit. Then his eyes narrowed.

“Wait… don’t tell me you’re all butt-hurt because of that woman. Pfft! Oh, gods, you are! Don’t even try to—”

“What?! Don’t give me that crap.”

Artis interrupted, pretending to be scandalized. He rolled up his sleeve dramatically, revealing his arm with all the subtlety of a peacock on steroids.

“Look at this! This is pure fucking muscle.”

He flexed, though not too hard—he wasn’t trying to pop his robe or, worse, make his arm look too good. This was a delicate art, after all.

Jin’s eyes lingered on Artis’s bicep, his face suspicious as hell, like he’d just caught Artis with his hand in the spiritual cookie jar.

“Huh… you’ve been working out, haven’t you?”

Jin’s tone was casual, but Artis could feel the trap tightening.

Artis, ever the sly bastard, rolled his sleeve down faster than a whore hiding a stash of stolen coins.

“Oh, you know me, brother. A couple of push-ups here, a few squats there. Nothing too serious!”

His laugh was so fake it could’ve been bottled and sold as snake oil.

Jin wasn’t buying it. His gaze was sharp, calculating.

If Jin even suspected that Artis was gaining an edge—whether it was bigger muscles, a fatter wallet, or, heaven forbid, a more impressive spear—the fallout would be catastrophic.

Jin’s ego was so fragile you could break it by flexing too hard in his direction.

Artis had to act fast.

“Anyway, brother, I should be going now.”

He said, bowing slightly like a guilty dog backing away from its owner.

“Wait a second,” Jin called after him. “You’re gonna drink that alone?”

He gestured toward the expensive bottle of booze clutched in Artis’s hand.

Artis froze. For a split second, he considered chucking the bottle and making a run for it. But instead, he turned back with a shit-eating grin, holding the bottle up like it was a trophy.

“This? Oh, I’m gonna play a game with this, Young Master.”

Artis said with a sly grin, giving the bottle a little flourish like he was handling some sacred treasure.

He threw a wink over his shoulder and started walking away with the confidence of a man who had just stolen a dragon’s egg and lived to brag about it.

Jin squinted, a mix of curiosity and suspicion flickering in his eyes.

Yes, he indeed was going to play a game. A game that was going to give him an end result that’s going to boost his cultivation base by 1.5x.